


Conversational, of Cousins

by VanaTuivana



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanaTuivana/pseuds/VanaTuivana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation, in loose verse, of Maedhros and Fingon after the return from Thangorodrim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversational, of Cousins

**Author's Note:**

> Written literal _ages_ ago (2004-ish) and re-posted for posterity.

So,  
the mountain has my hand. Well,  
may it have better use of that extremity  
than I did when still it was  
attached.

Besides,  
what need have I of dead things? Better far  
the hand should stay and molder there  
than here with me, its previous  
holder.

 _But  
that was the hand with the  
moon-shaped scar from the time  
you helped me climb the apple-tree.  
Remember?_

True;  
although (to be quite honest) I had  
forgotten that day until just now. You were  
quite young then. It astonishes me that you recall  
so clearly.

 _What,  
astonished? That is most unlike  
the cousin I know. And I know you  
well, and not less well the hand which until now  
you bore._

 _You know-  
that hand held the sword which  
gave me my first defeat, and a  
sound one! Surely you have not forgotten  
that._

Indeed,  
I had not. As I recall, it was hardly fair:  
you a child, I full-grown, twice your size.  
But your determination was unmatched, then  
as now.

However,  
you speak folly. Do not suppose  
that, having escaped unscathed but for this very  
hand (a trifling price, you'll agree)  
I quiver to go back there and- what?  
Steal it?

 _Not steal.  
No: reclaim what is yours. He should not  
have it who dishonored you so, a grim trophy.  
The hands of Finwë's seed are precious, cousin,  
and priceless-_

 _Matchless;  
no less than the deeds they do or the  
Jewels they create,  
if I may be blunt-_

You may not.  
I'll hear no more of this. Out, cousin- please.  
And I'll beg you, speak nothing to Ambarussa,  
of my brothers and you most like to embark  
...rashly.

 _I'll go,  
but one thing I must say first:  
that hand was one that my hand  
(while still a child) loved most to  
hold.  
Remember?_

I do.

 _Think,  
then, that this hand, if not you in any way,  
should be less valued than any other  
of your parts?  
I do not believe it.  
But rest, if you please; later shall we have  
more words, and of greater worth.  
Farewell._


End file.
